Jumper
by Typist Massacre
Summary: "His white cotton jumper and a cup of cold tea.  They're the only things left of John."  Sherlock's memories of John. Established Relationship flashbacks.
1. Asumming It's Monday

A/N: This story was inspired by livia-carica's picture "Jumper" on DA.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Sherlock, nor take any credit for the creation of the characters. That belongs solely to Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, BenedictCumberbatch, Martin Freeman and the rest of the cast and crew.

**Chapter 1**

**Assuming It's Monday**

Exact calculations had always come easy to him. The time that passed in order to obtain certain tarnishing on jewellery. To come to a conclusion of exactly how many hours someone had actually been missing, opposed to the 'officially declared' estimation. Crucial percentages that could mean the difference between innocent, guilty or an overdose.

Fitting knowledge for someone with a history of narcotic use, especially when it came down to deciding which brand of nicotine patches would be most effected when using multiples at a time.

It scared people sometimes how easily numbers ran through his hard wired brain and sorted themselves out themselves at will; whose will was still up for debate. This time was different. Even with the calendar staring him with an equally still glance, Sherlock Holmes could not recall what day it was.

Nor how long he had been sitting on the coffee table with his back to the sofa, bare feet planted firmly on the ground, gazing at nothing at all. He couldn't recall the last time he had left his flat or bothered himself to answer another one of Detective Instructor Lestrade's text messages. Judging by the recent progression of facial hair that contrasted his marble, pale skin it had been roughly 9 days. Roughly. Yet if you were to ask him how long has he been sitting there wearing John's jumper, he would tell you without a moment's hesitation that it had been 7 days, 16 hours, 42 minutes, and 37 seconds. 38. 39. 40...

John will be turning 40 in 5 months, 4 days, 21 hours, 32 minutes, and 15 seconds. 14. 13. 12...

The calendar continued to stare back at him. With calculations as precise as those, it should be obvious that it was now Monday, a week exactly since he had taken his place on the coffee table and gave into the sound of silence that was suffocating everything in the flat. Assuming that it was Monday when he slipped the jumper over his head and took in a long, desperate breath for anything that smelt like the something that was missing.

Assuming that it was Monday when he shuffled his feet across the floor that early morning, when the rain poured outside, slamming countless of little bodies against the windows and covering the ground with their now shapeless forms, and found the white cotton, jumper where John had last left it.

There was rush of adrenaline that surged through his body as he scrambled his things together, his mind a light. Large pronounced lips almost shaping themselves into a smile at the corner and his thin hands darting though the case files he had recently acquired from Lestrade regarding a series of seemingly unconnected deaths in different hotel washrooms. 4 victims all found in the tub. Only one thing connected the deaths and that was each bathroom was equipped with wash products that was a standard brand for hotels with the exception of one, a luffa sponge. With environmental awareness hitting its popularity peak, more and more hotels and over night services were using synthetic sponges but the victims were all found dead in the tub with actual sponges that had been previously lathered.

"John, grab your coat," Sherlock instructed and shoved a few crucial papers into his jacket pocket before throwing on his large coat and wrapping his characteristic blue scarf around his long, smooth neck.

John, who had just gotten home from what appeared to be a tiring day at the practitioners, looked up half heartedly. "Just five minutes," he sighed and sunk himself deeper into his chair, stretching his legs out and flexing his toes as his fingers curled into the arms of his seat.

Standing in the doorway, Sherlock merely looked down at the smaller man, analyzing exactly the level of exhaustion that had befallen on his counterpart. Eyes closed, means he wishes to rest and relax a bit, and the increased temporary shadows and lines under his eyes conclude that it was a surprisingly stressful day - probably a string of hypochondriacs with various levels of the condition or as apart of the latest run of paranoia caused by news headlines with heavily broadcasted details about the latest strain of H1N1. More likely the last than the latter with the arrival of the supposed 'flu season' - strange how people can preoccupy themselves with fictional patterns of illness and not focus on actual patterns that matter, such as the healing progress of wounds based on metabolism or the deterioration of organic material in damp, cold climates.

His eyes dropped to John's parted lips; slightly chapped, fairly dry and a slight intensity of colour. There was a lot of talking and thinking. John always scrapes his incisors over his bottom lip when he's thinking hard or is trying to not to get frustrated. Prolonged licking of the lips and irritation leaves the skin dry and chapped. Colour intensity only furthers Sherlock's deduction as he watched John run his teeth across his bottom lip as soon as he stepped inside the flat and took possession of his chair. He had been repeating the action subconsciously ever since. The arch of the neck shows he had been spending more time than usual at his desk writing prescriptions, doctor's notes and filling out patient charts.

John flexed his toes one more time and let out a heavy sigh, "Alright. I'm coming."  
With his eyes still closed, he pushed himself up but was stopped by a hand firmly planted on his chest and Sherlock watched John's eyes open to meet his.

"Sit back down, John."

Perplexed, John did as he was told and fell back into his seat softly and covered Sherlock's hand with his own, which still pressed against his broad chest. His eyes fluttered shut once more as Sherlock closed the gap between them and rested his face in his favourite spot, the base of John's neck.

"What about the case," John asked and tried to focus. He could feel Sherlock's lips starting to caress his stiff neck and trace the lines of his skin with the tip of his tongue.

Kneeling in front of John, Sherlock leaned over his lover and began running his hands over John's body as he continued to tend to the doctor's neck and shoulders with his mouth, "It can wait. I can't have you running around as tired as you are now. It would serve me no good."

Another sigh followed its predecessor and John gently pushed Sherlock away, shaking his head and retreating into the back of the chair, "What are you doing?"

"Your neck is stiff. I thought I'd loosen it up for you," the younger man replied and tried to move in to caress the sensitive skin once more but only found himself being pushed further away.

"Sherlock, I'm tired. I had a rough day at work and I just want to take a minute to relax before running around with you. It's nice that you're concerned about me but all I want right now is to be left alone in this chair for five minutes. Can you do that? Just five minutes."

"Can I still touch you?"

Surprised by Sherlock's reply, he glanced the young man's face. Those blue-grey, feminine eyes that were usually cold and analytical had now softened and were looking at him with such intensity that John could almost trace the shiver that trailed down his spine, trying to wash away the tension that was brought on by the day's events.

Gentle hands kept their place, resting on the smaller man's thigh, as Sherlock patiently waited for John's answer staying perfectly still. The only movement made on his account was the slight rising and falling of his chest as breaths cut through the silence, occasionally brushing the skin on his neck left damp by the man's earlier assault of tender kisses.

"Yes," He said softly and let his eyes fall shut as he stroked Sherlock's chest a few times with his thumb. John raised his hand it to his lover's small shoulders and let it fall down the length of the detective's arm, feeling the slight muscle definition that filled him with a sense of pride that he was the only one fortunate enough to see the power kept within them under the moonlight.

With only slight hesitation, Sherlock resumed his previous position. Although he couldn't see it, he knew that John was smiling as a hand ran through his dark curls and another pressed against the small of his back, pulling him closer to the man beneath him. Abandoning his post at the base of John's neck, Sherlock raised his head and pressed a series of small kisses around the corners of John's lips, careful and sweet as a declaration of his love, rather than a hungry urgency for the other man to sum up his strength and chase after him through the London streets.

The moment broke when John raised his voice, still caressing the younger man with his hands and tracing the formation of his spine and slender back through the fabric of his clothing, "Go on ahead. I'll catch up."

"No," he protested and continued to kiss the details of his lover's face. Every wrinkle. Every curve. Every dip and shadow.

"I don't want to wait for you."

Kiss.

"I already waited all my life for you."

Kiss.

"And now I have you."

Kiss.

"So no more waiting."

Sherlock took his mouth, pressing their lips together hard and cupping John's face on both sides. A surprised moan erupted from the man beneath him and Sherlock returned the favour with an equally pleasurable sound as John wrapped his arms around his waist and brought them closer together, feeling the sudden rush of endorphins wash over him. As with his own lips, John ran his incisors over Sherlock's bottom lip before running the tip of his tongue over the top, tracing the lines that made up his impressive and defined cupid's bow, before sliding it between the slight gap and invading Sherlock's mouth without any hint of protest.

A deep breath through the nose and Sherlock ran his hands around to the back of John's neck, pressing him harder against his mouth and wanting John to go in deeper and wrap themselves in a sea of merging tastes. John was becoming more aggressive, pushing against Sherlock's body until his back was no longer touching the cushions of his seat and clawing his way down the younger man's back from shoulder to buttocks, as if to leave a clear message to the world that this man belonged to him. No exceptions. Had it not been for the fact that their clothes were still on, it would have been a very deep message, which was probably why John had allowed himself to apply so much pressure.

At last, they reluctantly parted yet still kept their mouths within touching distance, fooling their senses into believing that they were still connected. There was a slight tugging sensation on John's jumper. He looked down to find Sherlock's hands wrapped within the fabric, tightly pulling a little every now and then with a smile on his lips and his grey eyes alight with such intensity. Meeting his glance, John ran his fingers over Sherlock's hands as they slowly let go and clasped themselves around the doctor's steady hands and bringing them up to his lips to praise and love each digit with a gentle kiss.

"Take your jumper off, John," he whispered as he finished praising the last finger, keeping it pressed against his reddened mouth.

John obliged and slipped his hands away from the other's grasp so he could hastily remove the article of clothing that had suddenly become the centre of their attention - the greedy, bastardly thing. The jumper slipped past his waist and was raised to his chest when he felt long, slender hands take position on his hips and analytical fingers record the flexing of his muscles as he arched his back to lift it over his shoulders and push his head through the hole to free himself from its confining presence. Tussling his hair before prying off of him completely, John tossed the jumper over the arm of his chair and looked deep into Sherlock's eyes lovingly, watching those intelligent, sharp eyes look over the details of his face and smile at his new 'post-sex' hair style.

"How do you feel, John? Ready for some action?" Sherlock's husky voice washed over his ears and sent a wave of pleasure throughout his body, to which John could only grip the other man's shoulders and softly moan a barely audible, "yes."

"Good."

Sherlock sprang to his feet, striding over to the coat hanger and tossing John his black jacket and pushing the doctor's shoes forward with his feet. "It wasn't the fact that you were tired that made you want to postpone leaving the flat. It was the fact that once you put that particular jumper on, it means you have no intentions of leaving the comforts of home. I had to get that damned thing off of you and now that it is, let's go."

Dumbfounded and his mouth hanging open in utter shock, John's only reaction to this sudden turn of events was the grab his coat and throw it back at his flatmate with all the strength he could muster, "All that to get me to go on a bloody case with you?"

With unnatural ease, Sherlock caught the coat and tossed it back to John, "I'll make it up to you when we get home." A smile and a seductive wink was enough to seal the deal and John sighed, giving into the fact that there was no way around Sherlock once he's determined to get what he wants.

Shadows had now started to engulf the room and pull it and everything inside into a world of darkness like it had done previously and faithfully since Sherlock had neglected to switch any light on.

Of course, they solved the case.

It was John who realized that the shampoo product was covering up any residue of the poisonous substance that was being leaked into the victim's skin, which turned out to be the natural toxic that was secreted by the organism as a defence mechanism.

The killer had been a locksmith who was called in to fix the locks of the four hotel rooms in question at each of the different sites, he had a family connection to the aquatic sea life black market and was purchasing the sponges before they could be properly detoxified and safely distributed and had an accomplice to break the locks on those specific rooms.

The victims were all linked. 2 women. 1 male. And a male who was undergoing the preparations to transition into a female body. They were a series of bad one night stands that left the locksmith gilded and he blamed them for his poor performance in bed.

That was last Saturday.

Assuming it's Monday.


	2. 168 Hours

A/N: This story was inspired by livia-carica's picture "Jumper" on DA.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Sherlock, nor take any credit for the creation of the characters. That belongs solely to Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, BenedictCumberbatch, Martin Freeman and the rest of the cast and crew.

**Chapter 2**

**168 hours  
**

168 hours.

One week exactly.

That's all anyone told him as to how long it had been since he had first arrived at the hospital.

Or was it an institution?

He hadn't the faintest clue. All he knew is that he was one of the many patients emitted into a large building inhabited by nursing staff, doctors and people of various aliments. Emotional, mental and physical aliments.

There were people with severe mood swings that would turn violent at the drop of a hat and others who would stare at a fixed location for hours without saying a word while rocking themselves.

Then there was him and judging by the heaving bandaging on his arms and the bag connected to the tube that ended with a needle in his arm that read morphine, he was the physical aliment.

He had to figure it out himself exactly how many days 168 hours were because that's all these people talked in. Hours.

What was so fascinating or significant about hours that it was the staff's only method of time keeping? Was it to keep the patients calm because they didn't think they could do basic math in their head to figure out what it meant?

Just thinking about it made his head ache. Of course it didn't take much to exhaust him, the drug being administered via IV drip made his body heavy and dulled his senses.

It took him 3 hours to figure out the math problem so in all honesty, it had now been 171 hours. 3 hours since he first woke up feeling like his whole body had been crushed and nearly spilled his own sick at the nauseating sensations of watching the room spin at rapid speeds. Not exactly something one wants to experience first thing in the morning -

No, sorry, afternoon.

When he gagged, a nurse ran over and increased the morphine dosage making the room not spin as fast, but replaced the nausea with more numbness that later was associated with exactly how much pain he must be in.

Numb = pain under medication. And that's all he could feel.

It was only during momentarily bouts of strength that he could flex his hand or turn his head to gaze about that he could make out his surroundings.

There were 20 beds all together in the room and the sign above the door read,  
"Under constant surveillance" which was plastered next to a blue light bulb that would flash once in a while and someone would burst through the doors, approach a patient, administer more medication and leave.

Not much to go on.

For all the commotion that would erupt, he was surprised how quiet it was. You'd think with patients screaming and wailing, there would be a lot more noise to disturb your stay.

Maybe it was the drugs. Mostly it was safe to presume that the side effects of medication was the leading cause of untrustworthy senses.

He had no recollection of his week long stay, only some strange voice or sound that  
brought him from the depths of slumber into an even heavier atmosphere. Like being surrounded by water but still having the ability to breathe.

Or maybe he was holding his breath and just hadn't run out of air yet but he could see the surface now and the abyss below. Now out or reach but still a looming threat. He would be scared if he knew what was so terrifying about it.

It had been 5 hours since he last figured out the time problem mathematically and a pronounced ringing in his ears made him realize that he had read the nurse's lips and imagined her voice saying 168 hours rather than actually hearing her answer.

Just how many drugs were being pumped into him for him to figure out that he was deaf?

Yet he was thankful for them because it kept him from panicking and trying to deduce anything from his surroundings -

deduce -

why did that word stand out from all the other words he had thought to himself that day?

He glanced back at the only face that was not unconscious and was fully aware of his presence. Its white face and mobile black moustache kept a close eye on him at all times, keeping time.

What a strange little guardian if one chooses to identify with a clock as its guardian. But right now, no one else was paying any attention to him in so the clock would be his only companion right now.

A small smile crept onto his face as he pictured little mechanical wings springing from its back and the dull light that bounced off its glass frame, caused by the florescent lights, made up its halo. What a strange little angel indeed.

He will name it Gladstone.

Once the second, or was it third, bag of morphine was connected to his arm, the voices in his head started to take over his mouth and he engaged himself in a full conversation with Gladstone. His mechanical angel had quiet a sense of humour. Of course they were all time and clock related jokes, but you'd be surprised how nasty and vulgar some jokes about oiling machinery and grinding gears can be. If you were to ask him how it was possible, he'd tell you to ask the clock yourself.

It had now been an entire day since he had last asked the nurse how long he had been in the hospital and he was regaining more of his sense. His body was still numb but at least his mind didn't wander and the clock stopped telling him jokes.

The meal cart was making its rounds, watching the uninterested nurse place stainless steel trays with 1960's pastel coloured tops on the bed trays that were connected to the railings. The company in the room changed since he had woken up the previous day - the ones with violent episodes had been removed and replaced with others who preferred to spend their time sleeping or entertaining themselves with quiet activities: reading, sudoku and crosswords.

His hearing was still not back to its original state but he could make out louder voices and read lips to interpret what was being said.

Where had he picked up that ability, he hadn't the faintest clue.

The woman beside him had nearly completed a crossword puzzle but was now biting the end of her pencil. His eyes wandered over and analyzed his bed partner - blond, roots showing, middle age, she had an oral fixation with biting when in deep thought or nervous or bored. Oh yes, he got that from the pencil but her nails - they jagged and bitten right down to the quick. Scaring around the nails showed she also bit at the skin and some marks were less than a day old by the evidence of dried blood. Probably an academic - possible professor and judging by the stack of word puzzles sitting on her bedside table, an English professor. Nibbles at her fingers when she's at her desk. It's private. Students hardly ever see their professor so she felt comfortable to let her bad habits take over.

Although he couldn't see her medical chart, he could make out the printing on the bag connected to her IV drip and the collection of bottles that sat next to the pile of books.

Blood pressure medication, nutrients, vitamins and anti-rejection pills. She was awfully thin - ah. She's not biting her pencil because she's struggling with a word problem. She's recently gained weight - she's suffering from anorexia and she had just had an organ transplant to replace one that was failing. Heart by the looks of it.

Why, or better yet, how did he know to look for these things?

He shook his head and lifted a hand to rub his temple - all that analysis had brought on a headache - at least it would be one if he could feel the pain instead of just the pressure.

Ok so he could read a perfect stranger and map out their professional career. That's not a completely normal ability, is it?

The idea struck him.

Who was he?

A wash of panic rushed over him. Had he not been so numb, he would have shot straight up in bed and darted out for the medical chart at the foot of his bed. There would be no point, he was lucky to have enough strength to lift his hand and turn his head.

A nurse was walking by, checking the patients, doing her rounds. When she reached him, he lifted his arm and held it out towards her. He could imagine his face because she looked up at him curiously and the muscles twisted her young face into a contorted older woman. "Something wrong, sir?"

"My name.." he managed to whisper, "... what is my name?"

Her mouth opened when suddenly a hand descended on her shoulder. She turned to look at the owner of the hand and her mouth sealed shut. She nodded and walked away after making a few notes on her chart.

The stranger looked down at him and his eyes gazed over the patient's body, finally falling on the man's face and he gave him a soft smile.

Something felt both wrong and familiar about that smile. In fact, everything about the man seemed familiar. That hawk-like nose, the suit, black umbrella and politician grin.

The man's feet clipped across the tiled floor as he approached him, arm still held out. He felt his eyes grow wide as the man got as close as he possibly could and stood beside him before leaning on his umbrella.

"It's good to see you awake, Dr. Watson."


End file.
